


Snufkin Refuge

by Doceo_Percepto



Series: Bendy's Murderous Adventure Across Moominvalley [13]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Evisceration, Gore, Mutilation, Other, bodies treated like meat dolls, creating new orifices, fucking every available orifice, many many snufkins, senseless plotless murder, slaughterfest, this is brutal y'all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-29 12:40:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doceo_Percepto/pseuds/Doceo_Percepto
Summary: The Joxter and Bendy find a gathering of Snufkins. They do what they do best.





	Snufkin Refuge

The Joxter wakes up. Normally, he wakes up and wants little more than to go back to sleep because sleep is lulling, warm, and peaceful. Time doesn’t exist with sleep, and neither does discomfort or displeasure.

But he wakes up now, and it’s some morning during autumn. Brown leaves crumple and crackle when he shifts. There’s a sharp tang in his throat from the dryness. It itches unpleasantly on top of the raw chemical burn that’s forever aggravating the mucus-slick walls of his throat. Water. First, water. And that’s pleasant when he sips it, soothing. Washes down tacky clots of blood.

He considers sleeping again, but something is not quite right. His whiskers quiver. Something shivery is tickling up his spine. He’s not hard, not yet, but he gets the sense he _ought_ to be.

It is time, then, for a hunt.

 

 

It’s not a normal hunt. The Joxter sniffs. Blood and ink. The usual. He snorts out as much of that smell as he can, then sniffs again. There it is. The faint scent of not _one_ Snufkin, but many. It puts an eager tension in his lower belly. They smell tantalizing, as always, unmistakable. Like nature and the wild, a touch of smoke, like sweat and fear akin to that of a doe, though their skin comes with an flowery aroma quite different than any other beast. One so inviting and hypnotic. The Joxter had been enraptured ever since the first time he had the pleasure of knowing it.

And now there are a great many of them, gathered together like lambs in a pen.

“There’s a Snufkin refuge,” the Joxter announces.

“A what?” Bendy asks.

“Much as Joxters nest, Snufkins form refuges. Places they gather for a time before they depart on their own paths.”

“And there’s one close?”

“I do believe so.” The Joxter chitters his excitement. “I’ve never been to one myself.” Purely for logical reasons, not for any lack of interest or desire. Simply put, one Joxter against any more than two Snufkins would not be a wise choice. The Joxter found it tiresome enough to manage even one fighting whining Snufkin. But of course, he wasn’t alone anymore. Now he had help. Very very useful help. Very _dangerous_ help.

Bendy, of course, is a demon, and although he looks innocuous enough now, his inclinations are truly vile. Until him, the Joxter had never met someone so sadistic as himself. Beside him, the Joxter’s sadism seems tame. Bendy is an unimaginable nightmare for anyone he decides is a victim, and he is endlessly resourceful in finding new ways to tear Snufkins apart. It only helps, of course, that he can transform into a beast twice the height of any mumrik, with teeth and claws more deadly than any weapon the Joxter has ever seen.

The Joxter is already excited to witness the sort of havoc he might wreak in an entire group of Snufkins.

 

 

They eventually find the refuge, nicely hidden away in the shadow of a grey cliff face. It’s a modest little field, flanked on one side by a ring of rocks. Snufkin tents are thrown up here and there, with the appropriate lack of order or organization. There’s the one Snufkin with an array of seashells twined around the brim of his hat, another not wearing a hat at all (what a strange Snufkin!), another with some bruising on his cheek (perhaps he ran afoul of another Joxter, how titillating), and a fourth wearing mostly greys.  That Snufkin has a small stature and youthful face. Undoubtedly, more are assembled in the tents.

The smell is so much stronger. They're a feast one salivates to imagine devouring.

“They’re lovely,” the Joxter sighs. He and Bendy are safely tucked away in the forest that rims the refuge, well hidden so long as nobody looks too long.

“They’re not doing anything interesting,” Bendy grumbles, rolling onto his stomach and resting his chin on his hands.

“They’re interesting all on their own.” Snufkins are truly unique. Generally loners, but they will come together for reprieve, stories, safety. Soon, no doubt, all the Snufkins here will uproot their tents and move off into the wilderness, with little concern about if or when they will see each other again. But for now they are silently working alongside each other, or else talking softly – the Joxter chuckles to think of Snufkins chatting with each other. Like little mice chattering and scuttling about. Endearing.

“I want all of them,” the Joxter sighs reverentially. “I suppose some will escape, but… oh, how do you decide which to grab? I’ve only ever had two at once, darling, this is so very intoxicating.”

“We don’t _have_ to pick,” Bendy replies with a coy flick of his tail.

“Oh, I would be happy with any of them, I suppose.”

“No, I mean,” Bendy grins in that mischievous way that never means anything good for Snufkins, “I can hold them all in place until we get to each one.”

The talents of his friend are appalling in the best sort of ways. “Can you do such a thing?” the Joxter does not doubt him, but rather is excited to see how.

“Sure. I think.” Bendy places his hand over the soil. Thin black roots sprout from under his touch, like tiny worms. They slither outwards, slimy bodies weaving under sticks and leaves, their path best traced by the subtle shifting of forest debris.

“You’ll grab them that way?” the Joxter whispers. Then, in amazement, “How many are there?”

“I can tell ya in a sec.”

The black tendrils divide and divide again, until there’s a great many of them, and the Joxter can’t at all count them, but they’re slipping deeper into the soil, sneaking under tents, circling around the entire camp.

Bendy bites his tongue lightly between his teeth. “…. Nine, I think. It’s hard to tell. I can’t actually see, it’s just vibrations…”

“Nine!” the Joxter chitters.

He does this perhaps too loud, because there’s an instant change in the camp. The Snufkins collectively recoil, tense, and all chatting is silenced. One of them draws a knife from his overcoat.

“Oh, dear-“ the Joxter whispers. “A twitchy lot, hm?”

“Dangit, hold on-“

One Snufkin notices them, points, a cry at his lips, and then it doesn’t at all matter how alarmed they are, because pitch tendrils burst up from the ground everywhere across the camp simultaneously, like long black seaweed. It’s magnificent to behold. The Snufkins have no time to react before ink is wrapping them up in cozy tangles.

“ _Asshole_ ,” Bendy mutters, and twitches.

“Mmmmh?” the Joxter can’t tear his eyes away.

“One of the ones in a tent stabbed me.”

“How unkind.”

“Oh, shoot. I think I might'a killed him. Not sure. Boy, this is really hard to do: gotta focus on like, ten places at once.”

“You’re doing absolutely perfectly,” the Joxter purrs, admiring all the Snufkins stupidly batting their arms around their bodies and clawing at the ink comically. They’re like little beetles flipped onto their backs. How hilariously predictable. Different as they look, they all respond the same.

The Joxter squirms. “Where's the one that hurt you, my devil? I’ll visit him first.”

“That tattered tent there. With the lantern.” Bendy shoots him a lascivious look. “if ya wanna keep things soft, I’ll give ya ten minutes before I start.”

“Five should be plenty.” The Joxter sashays right into the camp. Snufkins left and right are struggling viciously and futilely against the ink. He waves to several as he passes. “No worries, dears: you will all have your turns. Just be patient, and I’m sure Bendy will be very kind to you.“

One of the Snufkins (the one with the seashell hat) has the composure to say something very impolite, and the Joxter tsks. “We’ll find a better use for that mouth, love.”

He slips inside the tent. The heavenly scent of a Snufkin is stronger here. The tent is bare, as is the custom of Snufkins, who care little for material possessions and carry only what they need. The Snufkin who must own this particular tent is, meanwhile, crumpled to the ground with an ink tendril snared around him like the others. Something is most certainly wrong, though: he’s breathing in short, tight gasps. It sounds wet.

“Ah, did he break some ribs?” the Joxter asks. “Squeeze a touch too tight?”

The Snufkin gazes up at him with eyes brown as dark almonds. “H-help,” he bubbles.

“Oh, I will, beloved Snufkin.” The Joxter picks up the abandoned knife, dripping in ink. “You see, I hear you attacked my friend. That’s no way to say hello.”

His struggling is quite weak. Perhaps Bendy had damaged some internal organs.

“Normally, you greet people like this-“ The Joxter kneels, grasps the Snufkin’s clammy hand, and shakes, “Hello, nice to meet you, I’m the Joxter.”

The Snufkin squeaks.

The Joxter sighs. “Oh, you’re right. It’s dreadfully boring, isn’t it? People and their silly social customs. I must say, my favorite way to greet a Snufkin is just the way you greeted my friend. Like this, no?” the knife looks lovely jammed into one cheek and out the other. The Snufkin tries to scream but something just doesn’t quite make it out. The Joxter wrenches the knife through his soft cheeks so he’s got a bigger smile than even Happy would ever have.

Tossing aside the knife, the Joxter kneels over the poor Snufkin’s face, and nudges the tip of his half-hard dick between the Snufkin’s parted bloody lips. “You’ll take care of me, won’t you, dear?” he murmurs, “you’ll help your papa get started, hm?”

The Snufkin, such a fierce one, may have thought to bite down, but jamming the knife blade into the Snufkin’s gums curbs that nasty little habit before it can begin. Delicately holding the blade away from his own sensitive skin, the Joxter thrusts in the Snufkin’s mouth in earnest. The Snufkin gags, then cries out. “Shame, little one. You ought to stifle your noises: I fear they will only cause you more pain. Did he break your ribs, hm? Or was it worse? Did he squeeze until your lungs popped? I suppose you wouldn’t be alive then... Somewhere in between, then?”

The Joxter would love to lift the Snufkin’s shirt and assess the damage, but Bendy still has one tendril firmly wrapped around the Snufkin’s body. The Joxter doesn't fancy the idea of trying to push it off and Bendy mistaking him for a Snufkin.

So he leaves the Snufkin’s torso well alone, and drags the tip of his dick over the Snufkin’s tongue until he’s hard. Then, with a pained groan, the Joxter forces himself to pull out. He craves nothing more than to fuck the dying Snufkin until he spurts his hot cum into his cooling corpse, but there are fresh screams erupting outside, and the Joxter feels weak to imagine they’ve just properly met Bendy.

So he leaves the tent, and indeed, Bendy’s there. Already acquainting himself with the Snufkins in marvelous fashion.

Seashell Snufkin has his legs spread quite immodestly (what a slut!) as Bendy holds his legs apart with his tail and a single paw. His spiked dick is spearing straight through the Snufkin’s cunt and protruding like a prickly knife out of his ribs. Rather than thrusting, Bendy saws the Snufkin’s body up and down his cock using his paw and tail. The movements are jerky, careless, as if he’s not paying all that much attention. The gurgling congested keen of the Snufkin nearly makes the Joxter come on the spot, and he grips the tent opening for stability.

Still alive! Imagine! Still alive during that! It’s a pity Bendy is paying little attention to him, but the Joxter can see why - there’s another Snufkin sprawled on the ground, and Bendy has his teeth buried in his innards. He’s ripping and tearing with a huffing, impatient enthusiasm. He always did have such a bias towards biting and tasting. 

Such senseless, orgasmic violence. “Darling, please-“

Bendy’s head lifts; the Joxter shivers to have that predatory gazed fixed upon him, with blood and entrails dripping from his maw. He sweeps closer. “Can I? This one, before he dies-“

In some form of permission, Bendy transfers his attention away in favor of grabbing the tiny grey-clad Snufkin and lifting him kicking into the air. The Joxter collapses beside the eviscerated Snufkin gurgling on his own blood, face pale as death, his eyes milky and distant. He’s not truly there, and soon, he won’t be alive anymore either.

“You’re so beautiful,” the Joxter tells him, “you are all so very beautiful, you should know.” Before he even thinks of it, he’s sliding his dick into the soft wet mess of the Snufkin’s eviscerated body cavity. Intestines squeeze around him, swallow him right up like any welcoming whore. What a different sensation from one's mouth! Almost rubbery, yet infinitely soft.

Bendy is still dangerously close behind him: his growls and hisses seem to be right in the Joxter’s ears: it’s the most perfect symphony. His own skin is on fire, sweat gathering thickly under his overcoat. He’s so hard it hurts. It feels like the need is immense and insatiable, that the cock he’s pumping in and out of the Snufkin’s mass of organs is far too much for any one person to manage, that his pleasure is so much bigger than he is.

Then there’s a strangled scream. Crunching flesh. A shocking amount of blood splashes onto the Joxter’s back and head. The sensation of it roils through him in a wave of dreadful euphoria, he tilts his head up, closes his eyes, and his hips roll with needier and needier thrusts. Hot wet liquid pours onto his face. The sweet iron fetor floods his sense of smell, not quite drowning out the near-constant stench of vomit, urine, feces, and death. The blood streaks down his cheeks, slithers along the curve of his neck and drips from his chin.

There’s nothing but warmth, blood, death, ecstasy. His lips part, he tastes metal on his tongue. He’s outside his body, outside reality, in a realm blessedly drenched with red. The Joxter’s head dips, his own panting reaches his ears. Something lands heavily beside him with an organic crunch. His eyes part open, only slivers of gold visible beneath. Ah. Oh.

Oh, how beautiful. It’s the little Snufkin, the one that had been wearing all grey. He’s wearing all red now. He’s in pieces, everything inside torn out, and his ribs cracked open. His spine is broken in half so that his head is neatly snuggling his thighs, and everything below the knee is twisted beyond comprehension. The sheer horror of it rocks through the Joxter. What ghastly wrongness. Nobody should ever have to endure something like that. The Joxter trips over himself to cradle this Snufkin’s pale cold cheeks, and his heart is broken to find he’s dead, “if only you could have lived a little longer, dear, if only I could have savored you…”

His clothes are tattered. Whimpering, the Joxter pulls aside the ruins of his trousers. Oh, much better. The Snufkin’s cunt is tight and untouched. A virgin. The extra breaks in his legs makes him easy to spread open. The Joxter sighs like one sinking into a bubbling hot spring. His gold eyes roll up, as his body does what it knows best to do. He wondered what it would have felt like, if this little Snufkin had stayed alive just a bit longer. To have one’s spine snapped in half and still be alive…

But alas, he’s quite dead, and he’s already cooling – the Joxter’s thrusts are needy, rough, but this broken dead corpse can only go so far to satisfy him. His lidded eyes refocus.

Bendy’s busy tearing mouthfuls out of the dear seashell Snufkin, who has been ripped off his dick. He’s doing this tantalizing close to another panicky Snufkin, who is behaving absolutely insanely: screaming at the top of his lungs, scratching at his own ink-smothered skin, trying futilely to crawl away despite the ropes of ink keeping him firmly in place. What an irrational silly Snufkin. Like a dumb animal.

His screaming must be bothering – or perhaps exciting – Bendy because the demon’s attention turns to him next. His claws enter the Snufkin’s eyes sockets with a brutality that has the Joxter practically convulsing himself.

“Bendy,” he whines.

Dangling the Snufkin by the claws buried in his skull, Bendy glances his way.

“This one’s cold,” the Joxter says, “that one looks so nice, won’t you…?”

Bendy tilts his head up in something that might equate rolling one’s eyes. He slings the eyeless Snufkin the Joxter’s way then prowls towards the next screaming victim.

Twitching in excitement, the Joxter dives to the Snufkin, and is nearly shaking in his impatience to jam his cock into the mutilated eye socket, gouged into a much larger size than it would naturally be. The Joxter hisses at the sensation (ah, much warmer!) and fleshy torn bits squelch around him.

While the Joxter explores this new sensation, Bendy drags a Snufkin out from one of the tents. His immense paws begin tearing the Snufkin apart, much like a child would tear off the limbs of daddy long leg. Pop, pop, pop. The careless, casual ease of it sends energy snapping and zapping along the Joxter’s every nerve. It takes Bendy such horrendously _little_ effort.

The Joxter chokes and bends double, fists clenching. The Snufkin’s eye socket is so welcome, albeit raw and sloppily wide. It’s with great self-control that he pulls himself out. How titillating, to see the swollen tip dripping blood into that fucked hole. Biting his lip, he forces himself to look away – but what he sees then makes his eyes flutter, and his lips part.

Bendy had cast aside the dismembered Snufkin, and dragged another out. The body is dangling like a doll between Bendy’s legs, limbs loosely flailing, while he’s held in place by one paw. His shirt is ridden up, exposing a belly swollen and stretched past the point it should. Things are writhing inside him. They’re working their way deeper and deeper. The Snufkin’s screams turn to stifled gags, then a disgusting wet slurping noise. His eyes are practically popping from his head as he convulses, and something dark bulges beneath the skin of his throat. A black tendril unfurls from his mouth like a long, dripping tongue. Around it, the Snufkin chokes. Ink, saliva, and mucus freely drip from his mouth, while the quasi tongue affectionately licks along his cheek.

The Snufkin seizes, eyes rolling, and the Joxter is breathless watching him.

“You’re so beautiful, so perfect, I love you,” he whispers like a prayer, “lovely, just lovely-“

New tongues squeeze up from his throat and curl around his lips playfully. Altogether, they splay out over Snufkin’s face like a starfish clinging to a rock. More and more and more are birthed from the Snufkin’s mouth; Joxter’s breath hitches when something pops and he’s pretty certain that the Snufkin’s jaw just broke.

“Bendy, darling, don’t tease me like this,” The Joxter moans. Surely there’s no more room inside that poor Snufkin, surely he’s stuffed to bursting, and yet more and more tendrils appear, from his mouth, from his nose, from his ears, and every orifice is oozing blood.

Led by some hypnotic morbid fascination, he staggers to his feet, stumbles, then wanders closer. Much much closer. The acerbic reek of ink thickly joins the other scents. His fingers worm between two tendrils to touch the Snufkin’s cheek. There’s a wrenching, cracking noise. It's a bit difficult to make sense of what he sees, but his best guess is that the Snufkin’s hip bones have been cracked apart like the wings of a butterfly. It makes the Joxter sore to look at. He himself cringes and flinches when Bendy drives deeper into the Snufkin, and his hips are further spread, like two plates unattached to each other.

Then, all at once, the Snufkin is pulled apart from the inside: blood and guts spray, some spattering over the Joxter’s face with a fetid stench, while the Snufkin’s mutilated bones and meaty body parts hit the ground with a comical series of splats.

The Joxter recoils, round eyes burning a wild, deep gold. His hair is soaked at this point, and his clothes too, with the blood from several Snufkins. The foul odor of this place that has so quickly become a slaughterhouse is assaulting his nose, chafing wrongly against his already raw throat. Bile rises in his throat, he bends double, breathing hard. Suddenly, all the sensation and death is overwhelming. His arousal is thick, straining, dripping with blood, but his mind feels as if it has shattered. His body trembles and shudders beneath layers of sweat and blood.

Relentless, like a nightmare incarnate, Bendy brushes right past the Joxter to stalk the few remaining Snufkins. The Joxter fully grasps the idea of a demon. Something that does not stop where mumriks would. Something lacking all needs except the need for death. And now he’s dragging another Snufkin screaming from his tent.

Gasping, nauseated, the Joxter curls his fingers around his blood-slick cock, and pumps until he’s moaning and bucking his hips. 

Through lidded eyes he watches as Bendy slowly crushes a Snufkin’s chest into the ground, applying more and more pressure by increments-

“Wait-“ the Joxter releases himself, just on the verge of climax. The Snufkin is kicking wildly, displaying teasing hints of his pretty pale thighs. His untouched cunt is practically begging for attention. “Bendy, let me help.”

It takes him no time at all to slither between the Snufkin’s hips, tear down his pants, and piston his hips into the Snufkin’s twitching insides. Bendy’s huffing breath blows over the back of his neck. His dripping arm is snaked under the Joxter's. His paw looks massive splayed on the Snufkin's chest. "Okay," the Joxter breaths, spreading his fingers over Bendy's paw - how tiny and pale and fragile his own paw looks in comparison, especially as it sinks slightly in the gunk. With the chemical scent of ink burning his throat, and his cock comfortably wrapped in a twitching, dying Snufkin, he sighs. "Please kill him slowly, darling."

After this, he will need a long, long nap. 


End file.
